“I’m not sure a Vespa creates bad-boy energy.”
“Vespa… Harley Hog… whatever. The point is, he’s good looking.”
“I guess he’d have to be—if he’s thriving as a high-class prostitute.”
“He could just be a playboy, though,” Sue said next, thinking about it.
This was high praise from Sue. “You think he’s a playboy?”
“I mean, who knows? I’m just saying he could just be handsome as a hobby.”
That was true. “Joe the man-whore,” I said, trying on the idea for size.
“I don’t like that word,” Sue said, picking up her phone to pause our FaceTime and research it. She loved looking things up midconversation. “There’s got to be a better word.”
“Joe the libertine?” I offered.
But she’d found a good website now. “How about seducer?”
“Not harsh enough.”
“Player?”
“Too complimentary.”
“If we were in England, we could call him a shag bandit.”
I thought about that.
“Ooh, here’s an archaic one,” Sue said. “Mutton monger.”
But I shook my head with a shiver. “That’s the worst one so far.”
“How about just keep it simple and go with a classic? Womanizer.”
I nodded. Don’t overthink it. “Joe the Womanizer.”
“I like it,” Sue said.
And with that, it was settled. Joe of the bowling jacket was sleeping with half the women in my building, mocking them in elevators the next day, and possibly extorting them for money.
What other explanation could there be?
DR. NICOLE, HOWEVER,did not agree. “Please don’t call the cops on that poor man,” she responded after I spent a whole session telling her all about it.
“The evidence is pretty damning,” I said.
“What evidence? There’s no evidence. You’re talking about oneoverheard phone call and a few sightings in the hallway—sightings where you mostly darted into the shadows so he wouldn’t see you watching him.”
I shrugged. “I know what I know. A lot of things don’t add up.”
“Yes. But that’s not him. That’s you.”
“I’m not the person who filmed a sleeping woman in my bed and then made fun of her.”
“But youarethe person who just had brain surgery.”
“Are you saying I’m mentally defective?”